Policy
by gypsy season
Summary: There is a policy that follows every brain that is partially removed, every mind that is practically destroyed. Set preseries


There is a disturbing lack of thought in the room, the sterile white walls and floor, white lights that shine as bright as the suns, clean and empty. Even with a mattress, pillow and chair, even with the man sitting halfway down the farthest wall, the room is empty.

There is a disturbing lack of thought in the man's head. He sits with his back against the wall, legs out in front of him, arms limp at his sides, as if he had been dropped into that position.

He says nothing, perhaps because he has no one to say anything to – it is an empty room. But perhaps he also doesn't have anything to say. Where there is no thought, there is nothing to speak about.

Eyes fixed on the wall across from him, the man simply watches the wall change with every blink of his eyes. Halfway through every blink, when his eyes close, the man is tempted to leave them as they are and not even try opening them. He couldn't possibly imagine what might happen if he did so.

And who is he? He has arms and legs, limbs that he couldn't possibly try to move, because they feel so heavy. He has a face, a torso, hands and fingers and toes. He has a body, his body, but he has no thought. There is a disturbing lack of clarity in the room.

It is a room, and he is a person; there isn't anything else to consider until his head begins to pound. Or perhaps it had always been pounding, pulling and splitting in half, or so it feels. The suns tempt him further to give up mid-blink and keep his eyes closed.

But he might end up somewhere else completely if he lets that happen. Who knows where he'll be when he opens his eyes again?

Perhaps he could say to someone, there are suns in his room. If someone could please remove them from this particular orbit, then he wouldn't have to worry about where they would go when they set. But there is no one to speak to.

It is difficult to imagine a solution to the issue about the suns. But there once was a solution to everything. Even the trouble with suns. But he couldn't possibly imagine how. He simply watches the walls change as he blinks, and when his eyes close, he is tempted to leave them as they are and not even try opening them.

He knows every time he opens his eyes, he will see white. Forever? He doesn't know. But a thought just came into being.

--

He is dragged down a long hallway and into a small, windowless room, where he is then shoved roughly into a chair. There is a man already seated in another chair just in front of him, like a mirror image. The man wondered if this was just a mirror, until his other-self speaks;

"What is your name?" He asks.

Words blurt out on their own volition for the first time in how long? Forever? For the first time since the white walls changed. "This chair isn't very comfortable. I'll just be going," he says, standing up out of the chair. His foot catches on the chair leg, but before he can stumble, hands are grabbing his shoulders and forcing him back into the chair.

"I… I…" he knows he had just been asked a question, so he gives his mirror a confident answer. "Yes."

"No," comes the reply. "Can you tell me your name?"

The words give him reason to wonder why he would ever be asked such a thing. Surely he knew his own name, because something inside of him told him that everyone was born with a name. There, he decided, the words that came out of him just before had been spoken for the first time since he was born.

He repeats confidently, "yes." The hands that shoved him into the chair were still holding him painfully tight. Why would they be doing that, these hands?

"Can you. Tell me. Your name?" He is asked again, and he realizes that he is struggling agaist the hands. So that's good, he decides, because if he wasn't being held, he would fall right out of the chair and onto the cold floor. It has to be cold, because it looks like ice. "Look at me."

The mirror is angry. The mirror, he notices, does not need to be held into the chair. He sits in it on his own accord, feet firmly planted on the ground, as opposed to his own feet, awkward in boots that are not his own, trying to walk despite not even being stood on.

"Surely, everyone knows his own name," he supplies feebly, not knowing why he needs to look at him now instead of just talking.

The mirror shifts forward in his seat. "What about the women?"

There are no women in this room, he wants to explain. But perhaps the hands holding him down are the hands of a woman. He can't look behind him, though, because he has to look in the mirror. "What about the women?", he repeats.

"Surely, they know their own names too?"

Whoever this they is, they must know their names. "Yes, of course." He nods, but feels an incredible pain shoot through him, from the top of his head, down his neck, and down the rest of him, down into the boots that are not his, the feet that are meant to walk but aren't walking.

"So what about you? Your name."

There had been yes, and then his, and then the women as well, and now there was this your he had to deal with as well. "Of course."

He couldn't come up with any better answer. He was answering, though, and he was looking. That was what they demanded of him, and it was done.

"Take him away," said the mirror, getting up and walking out of the frame entirely. When had there been a frame before? He wondered if someone could really do that, take themselves away even from looking in a mirror? Had he ever done this before? He can't understand why he doesn't understand.

Hands pull him up and out of the chair, and he stumbles forward as they try to pull him in another direction. A harder tug is all it takes, and he goes where he is lead.

--

Where everything was once entirely white, it is now black, and this time, nothing changes when he closes his eyes. But there are smells, though. All unique, and all impossible to make sense out of.

As he walks along, he tries to stop so that he could maybe figure out what the smell was. But every time he slows down, he is forced roughly along, pulled and shoved, so he couldn't possibly be alone.

He just can't imagine who is with him, since he can't see anything but the way it looks with his eyes closed. There are no suns here, this time, nor are there moons; there is just earth, rising up to meet his knees as he trips and falls. Grinding beneath his feet.

Farther and farther he is pulled and pushed until something is pulled away from his face and hands shove him so rough that he falls right onto his face. The earth meets him halfway, stopping his fall before it's too late. It feels nice to finally stop moving, so he doesn't try getting up.

There are sounds of other voices, voices that sound nothing like his own, and then footsteps getting softer until he can no longer hear them or the voices. He inhales deeply.

Something wet slides down his forehead, something warm. Pushing himself up so that he is sitting on the ground, he wipes at his forehead with his palm. Still nothing. He then remembers to open his eyes, and his palm is smeared with the color red. He touches his forehead again – still more red – and wipes his palm on…

The front of his jacket. They have given him different clothes, he notices, and forgets about the warmth now traveling down the side of his nose. Now that his eyes are open, he can see the earth on which he had just been lying. He grass and trees and eventually sky and suns.

He tries to laugh, but his throat closes as he suddenly realizes that he never had the chance to tell them his name. They had never given him enough time! Quickly, he stands up on his feet, and runs in whatever direction he is facing, in search of his mirror self so that he can answer his question…

An answer that surely, he couldn't possibly be able to tell them.


End file.
